


Abbas Mei

by Nevcolleil



Category: Angel: the Series, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevcolleil/pseuds/Nevcolleil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley manages to escape Justine and Holtz with Connor in Season 3... But to where?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work-in-progress. And should I continue it, it could include a variety pairings including (but not necessarily limited to) Wesley Wyndam-Pryce/Nymphadora Tonks and Wesley Wyndam-Pryce/Angel, so please read only if none of this offends you.
> 
> Initially, what exists of this story was published in March of 2005.

It struck him with an actual, _physical_ force. The discovery Wesley had struggled, for months, to make - only to jolt back into his seat, breathless and nauseous with adrenaline, once it had been made.

For once there was silence. Silence in the little apartment where he and Connor were staying. It had taken Wesley all this time to adapt to researching with the boy in the immediate vicinity, so that finally he could work, and Connor could sleep, without one disturbing the other.

There was silence in Wesley's head. Borne of shock. To finally drown out the litany that had been repeating itself in Wesley's mind, over and over again, since Wesley had taken Connor from L.A.

' _...what have I done...what have I done..._ '

It had begun the first night Wesley had sat on the edge of a near-filthy hotel bed, with Connor lying in his make-shift crib - crying - and hadn't let up since.

' _...what have I done..._ '

Wesley knew.

He'd known. He had taken Angel’s _son_. He'd taken from Angel the one thing that had made the vampire truly happy, after several lifetimes of loneliness and pain. It didn’t matter what Wesley’s reasons had been, at the time; how good his intentions. What he'd believed-

Wesley sat at his small desk and stared at the texts and scrolls spread out before him.

' _What I should have known not to believe..._ ' he corrected himself silently.

The prophecy. That had led to Wesley's decision. That had led to Connor's abduction. That had led to months of Wesley's scuttling from place to place, with the boy in tow - trying to keep Connor from crying loud enough to make them conspicuous; trying to make what little funds he'd taken with him, the night he'd taken Connor, stretch far enough to get them away from L.A. Away from California. _Away_ long enough for him to truly study the Nyazanine scrolls.

Long enough to make the discovery...

The prophecy had been false. Wesley hadn't needed to take Connor from Angel at all. It had been a trick, a deception. And it had worked. Because of Wesley.

Sahjahn had no doubt created the prophecy. Holtz and Justine had led Wesley to it. Irony may have done Wesley the injustice of providing him with the proof of the prophecy's falseness only after Wesley had taken the child and left Angel and the others to deal with Holtz and Sahjan on their own. But Wesley was the one who had failed to find that proof in time for it to make a difference.

' _...and what I do next..._ '

What Wesley did with his discovery would allow him to repent for his sins...or to compound them even further.

It struck him. Now just what he'd discovered. But what he'd realized as he'd discovered it.

Wesley didn't want to repent.

He wanted to atone, yes. He wanted to make it up to Angel somehow - this thing he had done to him, that could never be made up or atoned for. He wanted to never have done it. To never have made the wrong choice, to never have taken the responsibility of making it, to never have been given the opportunity, one way or the other... But Wesley didn't want to repent.

Repentance required an end to the sinning he should repent for. And if Wesley's sin was having loved Connor like a son - having loved Connor so much, and Connor's father, as well, that he had denied the boy and his father one another - Wesley would rather die than accept penance.

And die, Wesley would. If he returned to Angel now, and offered him the boy, Angel would could kill him. He would not accept Wesley's explanations of why he had done what he'd done.

Wesley understood that. After months of having cared for the boy on his own, Wesley more than understood. Angel would have killed to keep his son. Wesley would rather die than let him go.

It had all happened so gradually.

In the beginning it had just been about duty - or so Wesley had told himself. That he'd cared for Connor, and what would happen to Connor's father - should the prophecy be fulfilled - were secondary concerns. Wesley had had a duty to protect the Champion he'd decided was his life's work to aide and protect. Protecting Angel had meant protecting Angel's son - the one weakness, perhaps, the vampire really had.

Seemingly over night that had changed. Wesley had changed. Duty had sounded like a perfectly good reason for sacrificing everything, until Wes had realized that he hadn't been left with anything. Anything but Connor. Feeding Connor, so that Wesley didn't own a shirt that had escaped a permanent stain. Waking in the middle of the night, to Connor's urgent cries, until Wesley could change a diaper in the dark - and often had, too exhausted upon rising to drag himself across the room and flip a switch.

Wesley had become what he'd prevented Angel from being.

Connor was only six months, but he looked more like two years. He’d grown fast - faster than average children did, obviously - although the boy bloody well _behaved_ like an average child. An average, _hyperactive_ child - messy and loud and…

“Connor! No!”

Wesley reeled with the truth of the Nyazanine scrolls for weeks - torn, uncertain, ashamed. But life around him went on as usual, and one day - much like any other day in Wesley's life now - something happened that sealed Wesley's decision to keep that life going for as long as possible.

Wesley held a diaper in one hand, a tiny little t-shirt in another. He no longer dressed Connor in pants inside unless the temperature dictated otherwise. Pants only soiled, Wesley had learned. No matter how often Wesley changed the boy - no matter how careful Wesley was when changing him - Connor had gone through enough pairs of tiny little pants, tiny little shorts, and tiny little onesies, over the breadth of their relationship, that Wesley wished to kill the sociopath who’d invented the latter.

“Connor! Put…the…int¢akaa…down…” Wesley pleaded, quietly, as his ward threatened to dash the fragile amulet against the bedroom’s scuffed hardwood floor.

Wesley was doing translations and recoveries on the East Coast; trying to chose his business associates so that word of their location wouldn’t leak back to Angel, but that he and Connor would still have enough to eat each month, as well.

Connor giggled in that slightly manic, full-bodied way that toddlers have - Connor in particular. He tossed the int¢akaa and clapped his hands in glee as Wesley dove to save it.

And then Connor was off - naked as the day he was born. Or…

Yes. Whatever.

“Connor!” The child giggled all the way down the hall as Wesley gave chase.

He cornered the boy in the kitchen, between the refrigerator that had cost him his deposit (it was now covered with crayon squiggles) and the stove Wesley had nearly set on fire while trying to cook dinner for Connor and interpret an ancient demonic charter at the same time.

“Connor…” Wesley crouched low. He got one hand around the boy’s chubby right forearm…

And then Connor peed on him. For not the first time in his short life.

And with remarkable precision, Wesley couldn’t help but note.

He sighed, deeply.

And then, with Connor’s next giggle, the boy said his first word - no doubt gleaned from the women who ooh-ed and ah-ed over him and Wesley whenever they were in the grocery or at the Laundromat or…

There it was. The _something_ that happened to decide Wesley's very fate.

“Dada!” Connor cheered.

Wesley stared.

He had become a father, in one form or another. And, may Hell have him, he was going to do everything he could to continue being one, to the best of his abilities.

“Come here you,” Wesley grumbled, scooping the boy up and carrying him back to the bath.

He attributed the constriction of his throat to the talc covering his hair, drifting down into his eyes and his nose with every move.


	2. Chapter 2

Wesley and Connor entered the Wizarding world around the time Connor turned a year old.

Wesley couldn't be certain of _how_ they had done it. The series of events that had led to their stumbling through the portal into this dimension were unbelievable at best. The only sure thing was that getting home would be difficult, if not impossible. And that, while Wesley worked on the problem, he would not lack for distractions to take his mind off his task.

Distractions like the oddly dressed young woman Wesley and Connor happened upon on their first night in the Wizarding world. The portal had dropped them in the middle of a cemetery, at night, on the outskirts of _London_.

Next to the young woman, who was battling three hungry-looking vampires.

At first Wesley thought she must be some sort of Slayer. Then he saw her poke a vampire in the eye while trying to stake it. As it turned out, she was just a teenage witch - doing her Summer studies.

"Professor Quirrell's mad about vampires," she explained, after Wesley had helped her slay the vamps. She'd eyed him distrustfully for all of a minute after he'd arrived, before she'd spotted Connor hiding behind Wesley's legs. Then she'd taken a second look at the piles of vamp dust scattered around the three of them and - with a cheerful exclamation - had begun to chat as if she and Wesley were old friends.

The witch's name was Nymphadora Tonks.

" 's't true you can blind a vampire by rubbing garlic in its eyes?"

Wesley informed Nymphadora that, yes, she could use garlic to blind a vampire. For a while. But then she'd most likely have her throat torn open once the vampire recovered, if she hadn't staked it by then.

This somehow led to Nymphadora's offer of helping Wesley find a place for him and Connor to stay while Wesley worked out where they were and how to get back. And to the first of many discussions of vampires, during which Nymphadora tried to learn as much as she could about _Muggles_ \- which is what Wesley and Connor supposedly were, as non-magical humans - and vampire hunting Muggles, in particular.

Wesley had to wonder if all teenage girls, in every dimension, were prone to having supernatural encounters, as Nymphadora took his explanation of the portal he and Connor had come through with remarkable aplomb. Then Dora, as he would begin calling her, introduced Wesley to her parents, and Wesley realized that portals were a common enough thing in the Wizarding world, if somewhat taboo in polite conversations.

Bill and Andromeda Tonks accepted Wesley and Connor's origins as easily as Dora had done. They put Wesley in touch with some of their friends at the Ministry of Magic - Wizarding Britain's form of government. As it turned out, the Ministry had an entire _department_ dedicated to the study and supervision of portals, and if anyone could help Wesley find himself and Connor a way home, it was the DoMPPM (the Department of Mystical Portals and Portalling Mishaps).

Once they'd heard how Wesley'd "saved their daughter's life" - Nymphadora's words, not Wesley's - and, in whatever way, decided him trustworthy, Bill and Andromeda also offered Wesley and his "son" room and board. As weeks of research turned into months, Bill even helped Wesley find a job. First at a _wand_ shop, of all things; then at a book store. Finally, at an apothecary just off Diagon Alley - Wizarding Britain's most prosperous marketplace.

The Tonkses became Wesley's closest friends. Andromeda doted on Connor as if he were one of her own, and when Wesley got himself and Connor their own flat, Nymphadora made herself a regular visitor. She even commandeered Wesley's guest room, covering its walls with Weird Sisters posters and Chudley Canons banners, for afternoons of "Defense Against the Dark Arts" lessons (as Dora had begun calling their discussions of demon hunting and vampire lore).

Wesley's serendipitous role as teacher didn't end with these afternoons. It only began there.

Wesley had begun demon hunting again. For a number of reasons. Back home, Wesley had had to hunt. To fight. For money, or simply to protect himself and Connor from the various demons that had threatened them since Wesley had become Connor's "father".

In the Wizarding world, fighting demons was largely unnecessary. While demons and vampires preyed upon wizards and witches just the same as they did non-magical humans, Wizarding communities weren't ignorant of this danger, and so were designed to prohibit demon attacks. The Ministry employed Aurors to deal with any attacks that occurred despite this fact. And Wesley hardly needed to resume demon hunting for money. His job at the apothecary didn't leave him rolling in galleons (Wizarding money), but it did pay the bills. And some of Wesley's friends in the Ministry - who Wesley had met, and initially remained in contact with, through the DoMPPM's continued failure to locate a portal into his dimension - routinely called upon Wesley's counsel for their Muggle-related cases.

Wesley didn't hunt for the money. He fought because he hadn't been able to in too long. When, at last, he felt comfortable leaving Connor in someone else's care - Andromeda's, or Molly Weasley's - Wesley began traveling outside the Magical community he and Connor lived in. He sought out vampire's nests in old cemeteries; demon packs inhabiting the wooded areas of the nearby countryside.

It had finally occurred to him. What he was doing in the Wizarding world was no longer killing time until he could find a way home. Wesley was building a new life for himself and Connor in their Wizarding home. The hunts were a way for Wesley to reconnect with his old life. To keep in shape. As, Aurors or no, Wesley preferred being able to take care of himself, and feared his skills were getting rusty after nearly two years of letting parenting take precedent over everything else.

Before long, Wesley was also hunting to pass his skills along to the "students" he had accumulated, little by little until a small band of teenage wizards and witches were trudging after Wesley whenever he left the flat for some demon-killing.

 

"I don't know why you don't apply for the DADA position at Hogwarts. Dumbledore'd be mad not to hire you. You could stake circles around Professor Quirrell."

Wesley was balancing his bank record, eyes narrowed at the numbers on the pages he was studying. The Gringott’s goblins seemed to purposely complicate their statements, as if hoping Wesley’s math skills would fail him to their advantage. Gringott’s had earned its prestigious reputation, of course, by conducting none but honest transactions throughout the centuries. But it had also kept its impressive profits - having, in its long history, never been successfully broken into once - by being meticulous, and notably suspicious. The goblin who’d helped Wesley open his account, the day he’d walked in with his Ministry-issued identification papers, had seen the notation on Wesley’s i.d. categorizing him as “ _nuper hinc_ ; magic-using Muggle” and convened with his manager for forty-five minutes before authorizing Wesley’s file.

“Hmm?” Wesley realized Nymphadora was talking to him. She had made herself comfortable in Wesley’s favorite chair, blowing bubble gum and reading the latest issue of the Quibbler.

“Hogwarts,” Dora replied, as if that said everything. “September first. I’ll get Charlie to hex you with a set of fangs. You can scare ol’ Quirrell off and take his place.” Dora blew another bubble, this one large enough to cover half her face. When it popped it stuck to the tip of her nose, and Dora sturggled for several moments to reach it with the tip of her tongue.

Wesley watched her, bemused, one brow raised. Dora was sitting upside down as she read. Lucien, the kitten Andromeda had gotten Connor for a bithday - which was now a rather fat cat - lay stretched out on the rug below. Occassionally it batted a paw at Nymphadora’s hair, which hung over the edge of the chair in a dark fringe.

‘ _Good Lord, I created a monster_ ,’ Wesley thought to himself. He’d introduced Nymphadora to bubble gum, and was certain he must have been absent of his mind when he’d done it. Dora - though he loved her, the dear girl - was the clumsiest young woman Wesley had ever met, or even _read_ about. Giving her perhaps the single stickiest substance in the Muggle world had been one of the most foolish mistakes of Wesley’s young life.

“While I appreciate the sentiment, Dora. I think I’d rather not go about impersonating a vampire in a school full of wizards and witches trained to kill them.”

In her preoccupation with talking, reading, and blowing bubbles all at the same time, Dora’s hair had turned bubblegum pink. Wesley stiffled a laugh. Lucien, looking put out, gazed at the curtain of pink directly above him in distaste. Then he crawled out from under Wesley’s chair, and made his way out of the room, stopping to wind himself around Wesley’s ankles a few times before he did.

“Eh. You could take ’em. And without a wand. That’d give the Slytherins a thrill.”

Wesley shuffled his bank statements, smiling, his eyes knowing as Nymphadora mentioned Slytherins. She was a Gryffindor - a member of one of the four houses at Hogwarts Academy for Wizards and Witches, which Nymphadora attended. Slytherin House and Gryffindor House were rivals. Nymphadora was a Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and in her last two years at Hogwarts, Gryffindor had lost two Quidditch cups to the Slytherin team. Wesley could imagine the sort of “thrill” Nymphadora would like to give them.

“Yes. It does seem to impress.”

Wesley had been quite overwhelmed himself the day he’d discovered his magical abilities. He was not a wizard, like Bill or Arthur Weasley. He’d tried using a wand twice, and each time he had gotten absolutely no effect. When he’d tried performing a spell he’d once attempted before (back in his own dimension), however, he’d blown all the windows out of his flat. And the flats on either side of his, as well. It seemed that, in this dimension, his command of magical energies was much heightened. And though he could not perform the same sort of magic as was common in the Wizarding world, the wandless magic he was familiar with from home was almost effortless to conjure, and extremely powerful, as well.

Nymphadora had gotten to the crossword section in her Quibbler, and Wesley flinched as he watched her work on it with her wand. Nearly poking her eye out when she first brought her wand to bear.

Then Wesley flinched again as Nymphadora blew another large bubblegum bubble. The thought of Dora, armed with both bubblegum and a wand at the _same_ time, frightened Wesley no end.

“And the only one’s in Quirrell’s class who know a bogart from a bogey are the ones _you’ve_ taught, Wes.”

Wesley sat back in his seat, smiling almost shyly at Nymphadora’s comment. He was glad she was looking down at her Quibbler, and not at his face. Wesley would not have thought of himself as a teacher. After the Sunnydale debacle... In fact, if he’d ever thought of his abilty to instuct students, it had been after that. As he’d contemplated just how inappropriate a “mentor” he’d have made to (so-called) “his” Slayers.

But the patrols Nymphadora and her friends had begun tagging along on had developed into demonstrations... While Wesley had been worried that the young witches and wizard’s parents would disapprove of their excursions, several families had actually come to him with thanks for their children’s improving marks in DADA. One mother claimed that one of Wesley’s nights out with the children had saved her son when a Hakneth demon wandered into their vacation cottage. Wesley’s afternoon discussions with Nymphadora had turned into tutoring sessions, for which several Wizarding families insisted Wesley be paid. The Weasley children were now as much regular houseguests as Nymphadora. And Mrs. Longbottom, from just down the street, had made it possible for Wesley to consider tutoring as his primary source of incomce. Mrs. Longbottom had a grandson, Neville, who was about Ronald Weasley’s age - a few years older than Connor - and spent many of his days with the Pryces.

Whatever Wesley might have thought before, he _enjoyed_ teaching. He liked working with Wizarding children and, often, their parents. Popular opinion seemed to be that he was good at it. Wesley was never comfortable with the praise. He'd begun the tutoring almost by accident. And his "students" were the children of his friends and neighbors, so they hardly stuck in his mind as _students_ , really. All the same-

"Thank you, Nymphadora. But I'm perfectly happy tutoring you lot. I won't be petitioning for Mr. Quirrell's resignation this September."

"If you say so," Dora replied, with the air of someone who knew they were right, but were too preoccupied with an eight-letter word for _lycanthrope_ to argue.

Wesley raised a brow and smiled, flicking his wrist towards a blank sheet of paper sitting on his desktop. With a few, whispered words of Latin, the paper folded itself into a small paper airplane and flew at Nymphadora. It skidded just under the upside-down top edge of Nymphadora's magazine, one wing-tip grazing the bubble Nymphadora had just blown and causing it to pop.

"Hey!"

Wesley grinned. "Don't your parents ever miss you?" he teased.

Nymphadora pretended to be cross for all of a moment. Then she smiled around the bubblegum stuck to her lips. "Terribly. But Mum knows you can use the help. Connor's a growing wizard, and all."

That he was. Wesley glanced behind him and up the stairs, where Connor's bedroom was. He'd carried the boy up there only a few hours before. Bill and Andromeda were away on Ministry work. Wesley had had appointments to make in London, that day, as well. So Nymphadora had stayed at the flat to babysit Connor. And would stay the night in "her" room.

"Well. You know to make yourself at home," Wesley told her. He rose, ready to make his way to bed. Before putting away his papers, he wagged a finger at her. "Just you stay away from my battle axes."

Wesley was only half-joking. The last time Nymphadora had polished the weapons for him, she'd used a polish the Weasley twins had secretly spiked with Magical household ingredients, and "enhanced" with a spell out of one of those damned prank magazines they subscribed to. Wesley's hands had turned bright blue when he'd hefted his ax, and everywhere he'd been splashed with demon slime that night, he'd sprouted feathers.

Nymphadora giggled.

"I mean it, Dora. Stay away from my weaponry."

"Sure thing, Wes."

"Dora-"

"Of course! G'night!"

Wesley sighed. "G'night, Dora." He was moderately reassured by her cooperation. But promised himself he'd check all of his axes the next day before he went patrolling. Just in case.

Pity he didn't think to check his swords, too.


	3. Chapter 3

“Connor!”

Wesley sidestepped a matronly-looking witch herding her brood out the door of an apothecary as he hurried down the street in Diagon Alley. He gave the woman a tilt of his head, and her children a smile, then carried on.

After over four years in the Wizarding world, Wesley had become accustomed to the frantic bustle and the odd spectacle of the Magical marketplace. He’d even witnessed the Alley in all its pre-September glory. That was when all the students of the surrounding Magical academies came to get their school supplies - particularly those students who would be attending Hogwarts.

Wesley just hadn’t had the privilege of being one of the _parents_ of said students at that time.

He knew now what he’d missed. And wasn’t sure he’d mind missing it again. Diagon Alley was a _mad_ house. And Connor was only eleven (six in human years). He should _not_ have run ahead of Wesley. Even if he did almost know his way around the place, having come here with either Wesley, or Nymphadora, or a combination of the Weasleys many times before.

Before he could work himself into a right panic, Wesley reminded himself that Connor had probably just run ahead to their next stop. It wasn’t as if he had lost the boy without any idea of where to look for him.

Still, Wesley didn’t breathe an easy breath until he was standing in Madame Malkin’s Robes, watching Connor step up onto a fitting stool near the back of the shop.

“Connor Angel Wyndham-Price,” Wesley said slowly. When Connor was a baby, only the sound of Wesley's voice could quiet him after a fit of crying . Wesley would spend hours talking to him - in English; in Latin. In any language Wesley knew. He would say everything and nothing - telling stories, reciting poetry and proverbs, spouting nonsense. Or, at times when he was too tired or frazzled to focus on anything else - simply repeating Connor's name until he went back to sleep. Connor Angel Wyndam-Pryce. Once Connor had gotten old enough to run around the house, and reach many of its high places, Wesley had been tempted to give him a middle name as well. Just to give Wesley a few more syllables to sound out whenever he got angry or frustrated.

Now, the sound of Wesley’s voice often served as a cue, as well. Whenever Connor heard his "Dad" speak in _that_ tone, he immediately became contrite. Or pretended to do.

Today, however, there was no contrition, faux or otherwise, in the expression on Connor's young face. He was much too keyed up from the excitement of having received his very own Hogwarts letter to be anything but himself. And his self was grinning widely at Wesley. .

Wesley had to struggle very hard to maintain at least a mild scowl.

“Dad!” Connor enthused. “I met a boy I’m to go to Hogwarts with. He’ll be a first year, like me. He’s in the back with Madame Malkin now, collecting his packages.”

It was an obvious diversion, but Wesley let it slide in observance of the day’s special occasion. And so as to encourage his son’s enthusiasm over having met another boy his age. Even though they had lived in the Wizarding world for most of Connor’s life, those early years they’d spent in America seemed to have stayed with him. Connor was, for the most part, very mature and very quiet for his age. Wesley had instilled in him a sense of propriety that disallowed being rude to strangers, but Connor didn’t trust easily, and was distant towards people he didn’t know all the same. The only time his curious and fun-loving nature truly came out was around Wesley or Nymphadora, or a select few of the children that lived on their street. And, of course, around the Weasley twins, who simply refused to be shut out where they wished to be let in.

“Oh, did you? What’s his name?”

“Mr. Wyndam-Price!” Madame Malkin chose that moment to come around out of the storeroom. An impressive stack of boxes and bags floated along behind her, eclipsing all of the small boy in her company save for his small, booted feet. Malkin was a plump, jolly-looking woman who wore some of the most outrageous hats Wesley had ever seen. And he’d seen quite a few since entering the Wizarding world. Old Mrs. Longbottom, who lived just a short ways from Wesley and Connor, owned some of the most atrocious and gravity-defying headgear Wesley could imagine. She was perhaps the only witch Wesley knew who dressed in a more ostentatious fashion than Mrs. Malkin. Or their own Nymphadora.

“There you are! I was just saying to your Connor here, it seems like just the other day young Nymphadora was standing in that spot, being fitted for her Commencement robes. And now you’ve got yourself a first year in the house! My! Time flies!”

Wesley chuckled. Malkin really had no idea.

“It certainly does, Madam. It’s good to see you. Hogwarts keeping you on your toes today?”

“Oh!” Malkin fanned herself, sending her other customer’s packages towards the front with a flick of her wrist. “As it does every year. You stay right here, and I’ll be with you just as soon as I get Master Malfoy’s purchases taken care of. I’m going to ring them up now, alright, dear?”

For the first time, Connor’s soon-to-be schoolmate came around the large, old witch and into view. Even if Malkin hadn’t said the boy’s name, Wesley would have known from looking at him who he belonged to. There were very few wizards Wesley knew of who didn’t have Veelan blood that had hair that blonde. And those grey eyes were practically a Malfoy trademark. Wesley knew this boy’s father, Lucius, from his work at the Ministry, and his friendship with Arthur Weasley.

Wesley knew _of_ him, anyhow.

“Alright,” the boy replied coolly. He was such a _little_ thing - the superior tone of his voice and his upper-class accent were almost comical. Even his walk was aristocratic. Stiff and graceful, simultaneously.

Beside him, Wesley heard Connor stifle a laugh and fought the urge to smile. In the adult world, the Malfoy bearing intimidated many, but Connor - unsurprisingly - was not one to be cowed. Connor had finally stopped growing at a supernatural rate, but he was still at least a head taller than the other boys his age. Young Malfoy looked at least two heads shorter than Connor.

Madam Malkin smiled, unfazed by Malfoy’s cold demeanor, then ran ahead to complete her sale.

As if a flip had been switched, Malfoy’s face softened and his posture relaxed. His eyes looked like those of any excited school child, about to begin his first year at Hogwarts. No doubt he had been taught to maintain a certain sense of presence around the hired _help_. In Madam Malkin’s absence, he was like an entirely different boy.

This time Connor did laugh. “Draco! This is my father. Dad, this is Draco…”

“Malfoy,” Draco finished for him. “Draco Malfoy, as Madam Malkin said. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Draco held out a hand for Wesley to shake.

Wesley smiled and took the boy’s small hand, then smiled even more when Connor continued to giggle at Draco’s proper introduction. Draco gave Connor a slightly baffled glance, but forgot about that soon enough when Wesley spoke to him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Draco. So, a first year, are you? Congratulations.” Draco beamed. “You’re here shopping alone?”

“My mother’s just across the street, getting the rest of my school books. Have you gotten yours yet?” Draco asked Connor. “I’ve already got my Potions texts. And my Charms, too. I’ve read up to the second chapter of each.”

Connor shifted almost imperceptibly on the fitting stool, but he answered honestly. “No. Not yet. But I’ve a friend who’s already Commenced. She’s always given me her texts to read. It shouldn’t be too hard to catch up.”

Draco’s thin, blonde brows arched. “Really? Father wouldn’t let me study very far ahead. Says it wouldn’t do to show up the Muggle-borns on the first day of school. I’ll just have to study harder during the rest of the year.”

Wesley’s lips twitched. That sounded like something Lucius Malfoy would say, from what he’d heard. He watched jealousy and disdain vie for dominance in the young Malfoy’s eyes, and wondered which would win out. He was almost impressed then when Draco said, “I bet you could teach me all sorts of things if you’ve got all your friend’s old texts.”

Connor smiled, and Draco looked nervously in Wesley’s direction, as if startled to remember that he was speaking in front of an adult. No doubt favoring his father’s opinions over all others was another lesson Draco had been taught early on. Wesley felt a surge of sympathy for the boy. He, of all people, knew not to judge a man - or child - by his father. Although that wasn’t to say that Wesley would not watch his son’s acquaintance with a member of the Malfoy family with a wary eye. In the Wizarding world, family names and lineage meant even more than they did in the human one. And Wesley wasn’t certain which lineage here could be considered the most suspect. Connor’s - having been born of demons - or Draco’s. According to Arthur, the Malfoys had never been shy to admit their sympathies towards the Dark.

“Perhaps the two of you can study together at school,” Wesley suggested, although he questioned the likelihood of that happening. Wesley knew that Hogwarts sorted its students into houses once they were accepted, and he had no idea which house Connor would be placed into.

Draco nodded and he and Connor smiled at one another.

“Mister Malfoy?” Madame Malkin called from the front of the shop. Draco spared her a glance and turned back to Wesley and Connor.

“Well. I guess I’m done here. But I’ll be seeing you on the train, won’t I?” he said to Connor.

“Yes. Of course. It was nice talking to you.”

“And you. And you as well, Mr.-” Draco paused, then flushed, obviously having forgotten Connor’s last name - if he’d given it. Or having forgotten how to correctly pronounce it. There was that awkward, almost frightened look again.

Wesley laughed to put Draco at ease. “Wyndam-Pryce,” he told him. “It’s a mouthful, isn’t it?”

Draco laughed, too, visibly relieved. “Yes. Nice talking to you.”

 

~+[]+~

 

The only thing - Wesley had learned over his acquaintance with the lot of them - more unstoppable than a Weasley’s ambition to befriend, was their determination to lend aid to a friend in need. Whether said friend felt comfortable accepting such aid or not.

“Really, Molly. I couldn’t possibly. You’ve already got your own…”

“And I dare say they won’t be getting any more manageable as we go along. I swear those boys will be the death of me,” Molly said over the ruckus, while she swatted at the twins - Fred and George - as they ran past through the kitchen and out the back door.

“Fred! George! What have I told…”

“Sorry, Da!” the same voice, spoken simultaneously through two separate mouths, carried through the window. Arthur shook his head, but his lips formed a fond smile.

“So you’d best be taking advantage of the offer, while the offer’s good,” Molly continued.

Wesley sighed. It wasn't as if he was trying to find reasons not to go. But if he were-

' _I've no one to babysit_ ' would be a pretty dodgy reason, indeed.

“You know Andi and I would love to have him,” Bill Tonks added. “But we’ve got that damned wedding to see to. Honestly. Whatever happened to running off and eloping like a couple of sensible people?”

The sparkle in Bill’s eye made him the next to suffer the sting of Molly’s dish towel, while Arthur and Wesley looked on, smirking.

“Oh, now! You and Andromeda had a lovely wedding,” Molly chided, good-naturedly. “A right affair, that was! Don’t you give me this ‘running off and eloping’ rubbish! There’s nothing sensible about passing up the opportunity to be united before your family and friends.”

Arthur nodded readily while Wesley concentrated on the mug in front of him, lips twitching slightly. Then he glanced over Arthur’s shoulder towards the family room, to where Connor and the youngest Weasleys were playing a board game. Sense of habit - always checking to see where Connor was and if he was alright.

“Hear, hear,” Arthur said, earning a smile from his wife.

Bill smiled, too, but shook his head. “Well, why can’t they do their uniting when the DoME isn’t undergoing an official inquiry? ‘S all I’m saying. And Nymphadora will be testing just a few days after. The rest of her unit will be where they should, back at the Aurory studying. What will that look like? Dora taking off only a few days before her final exams?”

“It will look like she puts her cousin’s happiness above her own concerns,” Wesley interjected genuinely. “Which is nothing but the truth. Besides, Bill, you know Dora’s ready for those tests. She could pass them in her sleep, without having spent the full week prior with her nose stuck in a bunch of books.” Wesley never thought he’d say such words, implying that too much reading could actually _hurt_ one’s focus, rather than help it. But that was exactly what happened whenever Nymphadora studied too hard for something, thought too much about what she was doing. She got nervous and confused and futzed things up. She had done this often while Wesley had been tutoring her, and he had learned to instruct her orally during the most complicated lessons, and to skip any bookwork altogether.

“So what will it be, then?” Arthur asked, turning back to Wesley.

“Charlie would just love to see Connor, you know?” Molly commented as she sent a small stack of plates to the sink. Wesley got the distinct feeling that he was being ganged up upon, and a raised brow in Bill’s direction gave him his answer. Tonks’ cough sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh, and then the man delved into his coffee cup with a heretofore unseen preoccupation with his coffee.

Wesley got a clear picture in his head of himself, sitting exactly where he was, arguing that the Weasleys needn’t take Connor with them all the way to Romania, just so Wesley could attend his appointment with Headmaster Dumbledore alone…right up until the moment that Connor arrived back at the Burrow, souvenirs from that Dragon Taming Reserve Charlie worked for tucked under both arms. Wesley had been backed into enough corners to realize when he was outnumbered and outgunned. And was a bit sheepish, realizing it was silly to want to put up such a fuss over an appointment he’d agreed to consider in the first place.

“You know Connor will be safe with us,” Arthur assured. “He’s a mindful boy and Charlie’s made all the preparations to have visitors.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m not worried about that. I know you’ll treat Connor as one of your own. I just…” Wesley sighed. “I don’t think we’ve ever been that far apart. Scotland and Romania…”

It wasn’t a lie. Wesley had rarely let Connor out of his sight, even after having become close with the Tonks and the Weasleys. And he was a bit anxious about that, as well - regardless of how much he trusted their good friends.

Molly reached over and pinched his cheek - a gesture of affection she usually relished only upon the children. It made Wesley want to blush every time she did it, as he was the youngest adult in their group. He felt doubly foolish as she did it now. Here he was - an ex-Watcher, a demon hunter. Frightened of an old man and a school; being coddled by a motherly witch in a pink apron.

“You’ll be fine, dear. And so will Connor. You’ll see. Might even have yourself a bit of fun, being out there on your lonesome. You’re much too young to be sitting at home every night, alone with your son and your textbooks.”

‘ _Oh, dear Lord_.’

That was Wesley’s cue to leave. Over time, it had become obvious to everyone that Wesley wouldn’t respond well to speculations about his love life. The understanding was that Wesley had raised Connor alone. And preferred to continue doing so.

But that hadn’t stopped Molly from trying to set him up with someone several times before. Nor had it stopped Nymphadora from developing a rather embarrassing crush on him at one time or another. _That_ had been quite the fiasco. But at least Nymphadora had come to her senses, and no one had gotten hurt.

The last time Molly had sent Wesley out on a date, there had been bloodshed. Also, quite a number of _Reparo_ charms had been involved. Molly claimed she didn’t know why Wesley’s romantic evenings always ended in such disaster, but that things would be different once Wesley found the right man or woman to spend his life with.

Arthur leaned back from the table at the same time as Bill chuckled and lowered his coffee cup.

“There she goes again!”

“Dear…”

“What?”

Wesley grinned.

“I’ll just go and get Connor packed.”

 

~+[]+~

 

The letter had come by owl just the day before. Only two-weeks into Summer hols, and Headmaster Dumbledore was requesting that Wesley come and speak with him.

Connor had just finished his first year at Hogwarts. He'd gotten high marks in all of his classes, and was looking forward to trying out for Quidditch the next year...

Wesley hadn't spoken to the Department of Mystical Portals and Portalling Mishaps, officially, in over two years. Though he'd told Connor a bit about his old life, back home, and about his family.

Dumbledore's letter was actually a job offer involving Defense Against the Dark Arts. Apparently, Hogwarts had lost its professor rather abruptly (Wesley had heard about that, actually) and needed an emergency replacement. Word of Wesley’s experience both with defense and instruction of the same had reached the Headmaster, and he wondered if Wesley could come to the school and discuss the matter with him.

‘Oh.’

“Bloody, bloody hell…” Wesley whispered to himself, as Connor came into the kitchen for breakfast.

“What’s that, Dad?” he asked, startling Wesley and announcing his presence.

Wesley turned to see his dark-haired child rubbing his eyes and scratching at the t-shirt he’d worn to bed with a pair of pajama bottoms.

Wesley set the letter aside and adjusted his glasses.

“Oh. Uh…nothing. Nothing important. Your Headmaster just owled me.”

Wesley whispered a quiet spell and set breakfast to cooking - intercepted the can of Muggle soda on its way out the fridge and towards Connor, with a wave of his hand - and grabbed a glass and a carton of milk instead.

“You aren’t supposed to do that at home,” he scolded playfully, sitting down by Connor and pouring a glass of milk for him. Wesley and Connor’s home had wards, as most homes did in their neighborhood. But theirs not only kept things out - they kept magic performed within undetectable to outside sources. Good thing, too - just out of school for the Summer and Connor was already forgetting the Restriction Against Underage Magic.

Connor sighed, but he was grinning. “Oh, come on, Dad,” he said, circumventing Wesley’s admonishment altogether, to address the next objection ready to fall from his father’s lips. “A _little_ caffeine in the morning won’t hurt me. You drink coffee all the time.”

“Yes, and the tapestries remain their natural color when I do. Not to mention that the potted plants do not uproot themselves, and the floorboards do not whistle renditions of Mahler’s Symphony No. 8.”

Wesley’s glare was struggling feebly to maintain itself even as he spoke, his eyes displaying clearly the laughter his lips suppressed.

Connor hid a smirk badly and sipped at his milk.

“I’m a growing wizard. Growing wizards have manifestations. Mine are just a little more…creative…than some.”

Wesley rolled his eyes and picked up the mug he’d conjured.

“I’m going to have a little talk with Andromeda about this 'growing wizard' business. It sounds an awful lot like an excuse to me.” He gave Connor a pointed look.

In years past, this was the sort of moment when Wesley would attack - with wiggling fingers - a ticklish and giggling Connor. Or throw him over Wesley’s shoulder and mock-wrestle with him on the floor (something Wesley would never have imagined himself doing, and still could not reconcile with the otherwise relatively dignified nature of his character).

Now Connor had grown too big for such sport, though he and Wesley still had their fun - albeit in a less childish way. It struck Wesley, for not the first time, how often he had wished - when Connor was a baby - that his life was a little more dignified. A little more like it had been before Holtz. A little more quiet, a little less _messy_.

Now he missed the toddler who had once finger-painted a priceless, ancient document with ravioli sauce, so that it was nearly unreadable; the six-year-old who had brought home a garden gnome as a pet (resulting in Wesley’s having spent weeks out in the garden, ridding himself of the pesky buggers). Wesley even missed that tiny baby boy who had much preferred _urinating_ on Wesley, to doing so in his nappies as he was meant to do.

Well. Maybe not that last quite so much…

But he missed that tiny baby boy who had bounced in his lap and clung to his fingers as if they were some fascinating new toy.

Wesley shook his head, bringing himself out of his reverie.

“So, are you going to say yes, then?”

“Yes to what?” Wesley asked, distracted.

“Professor Dumbledore.”

Wesley looked up…and choked on his coffee.

The letter Dumbledore had sent was floating in the air just above the counter where Wesley’d left it, its contents magnified by the giant bubble hovering in front of it.

“Connor!”

Wesley spoke a word in Latin and the bubble popped, dropping the letter inside to the floor.

“Your wand," Wesley demanded without hesitation.

“Dad!”

“Your wand, Connor. _Right_ now.”

For all that he tested his limits on a regular basis, and usually got away with crossing them, Connor knew that when his father spoke in that voice, that he had taken a step he’d best retrace. With a sigh, he handed over the nine-and-a-half inches of ebony oak, with a core of dragon’s heart-string, that he kept tucked up his sleeve even as he slept.

Wesley took the wand and tucked it into the pocket of his robe with his own.

“But I was just-”

“Drink your milk, Connor.” Two breakfast plates were arranging themselves and heading for the table. As they set down in their places, Wesley added, “And eat your breakfast.”

“But-”

A look, and Connor scowled. He turned to his eggs and sausage.

“Yes, sir.”

Breakfast proceeded largely in silence until Wesley could watch his son silently stew out the corner of his eye no longer.

“I’m going to consider it,” he said quietly. And nothing more than that.

Connor did not reply at first, and just when Wesley thought they boy was going to spend the rest of the morning in a sulk, he said, “You should.” Another pause, and: “You’d make an excellent professor, Father.”

Wesley couldn’t help it. He smiled.

“Professor Wyndam-Pryce. The students would hate me for making them remember that name.”

“Nah. They’ll love you,” Connor said without thinking. And with such certainty as to say, ‘I love you’.

Wesley was about to say the same when Connor asked, “It was clever, though, wasn’t it? The bubble? Dora says she can make one that does translations, too.”

Wesley shook his head, but he laughed.

“Yes, son, it was clever. It will get you _expelled_ if one of those bubbles ever makes it past the wards, but it was clever. Now finish your eggs.”

Wesley rose and took his plate to the sink, before going to get dressed.

Connor’s wand remained on the chair where Wesley had sat.

Connor smiled and tucked his wand back into the waistband of his pajama bottoms.


End file.
